The Demon King's Guide To Not Getting Defeated By A Paladin-Chapter 42 - 41: The Brighter The Sun

Mikhail coughed—once, twice—then gasped, eyes flying open like he’d just broken the surface of deep water.

The breath that tore from his lungs was dry and cracked, like it hadn’t been used in hours. His chest rose sharply, sweat slicking his shirt, his claws twitching. The scent of old wood and tea still lingered in the air—but faint, like memory.

His head throbbed. His bones ached. But it wasn’t the pain that jolted him.

It was her.

Medusa.

Sitting across from him, back resting against the windowsill. Her dark silhouette carved against the glow of morning. The sun outside shone gold, brushing over her shoulder like the hand of a lover. She didn’t even look at him. Just stared out—silent, composed, watchful.

He blinked, confused. "What the hell...?"

She didn’t turn her head.

"Good morning, sunshine," she murmured dryly. "You’ve been out for quite some time."

He sat up too fast, wincing, teeth gritted. "What happened?"

Her gaze finally slid toward him. Calm. Cool. Mildly amused.

"You got your ass handed to you."

There was a beat.

"...Don’t tell me it was that brat."

Medusa didn’t answer. She just arched a brow, as if daring him to challenge it.

Mikhail’s nostrils flared. "You mean the pale tea-sipping puppet with the eyes like old milk?" He pointed a claw at the air. "That one? He’s the one who did that to me?"

Medusa gave a long, lazy sigh, returning her eyes to the window. "You ripped his head off, Mikhail. And then he drank tea while stabbing yours."

"I could’ve taken him," he muttered. "I just—"

"You always say that," she cut in.

He stood up fast, or tried to. His leg buckled and he grabbed the bedpost for support. "I just needed another second to—"

"Start spinning around like a manic squirrel?" she interrupted again. "Jump off walls? Try to scream your way into a power-up?"

He growled, "Stop talking like I’m some damn bitch."

"Then stop acting like one," she said simply, shrugging.

The silence that followed was tight, like rope around the throat.

Mikhail ran a hand through his tangled hair. "I’m gonna kill him next time. No hesitation."

Medusa chuckled lightly. "You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Or keep you paralyzed like some broken marionette. I like your sass. Would hate to see it melted into soup."

"...Why are we here?" Mikhail asked after a moment, eyes narrowing. "Why didn’t he just kill us?"

Her eyes stayed fixed on the sun.

Then slowly, deliberately, she pulled her legs off the sill and stood, letting her boots click against the wooden floor as she crossed to him.

"We were brought here," she said, "because we have a purpose."

His jaw tensed. "What sort of purpose?"

She smiled now, her lips curling into a slow, sharp grin. "He’s looking for people with demon blood. And powerful magical reserves." She tilted her head. "We qualify."

Mikhail snorted. "Of course we do. We’re freaks of nature."

Her grin didn’t fade.

"And Verel," she added, "he wants to use us."

Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. "Use us? For what?"

"To bring back an army."

He blinked. "A what?"

"An army," she said, voice lower now. "One he claims will be able to bring down the Demon King."

The words hit him like ice.

"What?" he said slowly.

"You heard me."

Mikhail took a step back. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"That’s bullshit," he snapped. "I can bring down the Demon King. I don’t need some ghost-eyed corpse leading me into battle with secondhand soldiers."

"It’s not about what you need, Mikhail," she said coolly. "This isn’t a solo act."

"He’s still just a man," Mikhail snapped. "The Demon King—he bleeds like anything else. I’ll tear him apart."

Medusa shook her head. "No. He doesn’t just reign over demons. He sired us."

She met his eyes then, quiet and steady. "Our defeat isn’t just likely. It’s written in us. It’s in our blood. And that makes it predictable."

Mikhail’s jaw clenched. "I’m not just demon. I’m part human, remember?"

"Yes," she said softly. "But that only makes it more tragic."

He turned away from her, pacing, hands clenched. "So that’s it? We’re pawns now? Little soldiers in a blind bastard’s war?"

She smiled again, more grim this time.

"Oh no," she said. "It’s worse."

Mikhail stopped cold. "...What do you mean?"

Medusa leaned forward slightly. Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. "Verel doesn’t want to just defeat the Demon King."

He turned his head toward her slowly.

She continued, "He wants to summon Angels."

Mikhail’s brow lifted. "Angels?"

"Yes," she said, voice like smoke.

Real, heavy silence fell between them now.

Mikhail blinked once. "You mean the beings that torched half the under-realms and burned everything into nothingness?"

She nodded once. "Those."

"...Why the fuck would he want that?"

She looked out the window again.

"That," she said softly, "is the question."

Before Mikhail could fire off another string of obscenities about angels and blind bastards, a knock echoed through the room.

Both of them froze.

Medusa cocked her eyebrow first, eyes narrowing slightly.

Mikhail followed suit, his arms still crossed, muscles still tense. "You expecting room service?"

"Not unless it comes with a side of curses."

She strode toward the door with a cautious but unhurried grace, fingers brushing the wall lightly as she went. Mikhail watched her in silence, every step she took thick with the air of something unspoken.

The door creaked open.

Nothing.

No figure. No shadow. No presence.

Just a tray.

Silver edges dulled from age. A teapot nestled in the center, steam curling from the spout. Three plates arranged carefully beside it: one with soft, toasted bread and jam; another with spaghetti coiled into a perfect spiral, topped with sauce and grated cheese; the last carried chopsticks beside a small bowl of what looked like stir-fried noodles. Everything warm. Fresh. Deliciously inappropriate.

And resting at the corner of the tray, tucked beneath the handle of the teacup, was a note. Medusa bent down, snatched it between two fingers, and unfolded it slowly.

She read it once. Then again.

A small sound slipped from her lips—half a snort, half a bitter chuckle. She turned the note so Mikhail could read it too. "I hope you’re not plotting to kill me..."

That was all it said. Written in fine, calligraphic handwriting. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Mikhail stared at it, lip twitching.

"That brat," he growled, "has jokes."

Medusa closed the door with a quiet click. "Apparently, he also has a sense of humor."

Mikhail stepped closer, glaring at the food. "You think this is poisoned?"

"Probably."

He grunted. "Still looks better than what I had in prison."

Medusa smirked faintly and picked up the cup of tea, holding it to her lips without sipping. "Then by all means," she said dryly, "be my guest."